"No," said Richard. He drew a deeper breath and looked his father in the eyes. "I couldn't have any argument about it, father. I had to go. There was no time for argument. I thought it would be easier for everybody if I just went. I am deeply sorry that you had this anxiety. I didn't mean you should."
Mrs. Lister saw the pleading eyes, heard the pleading voice, saw the even more eloquent grime and the white, streaked cheeks, but she made no affectionate sign of yielding, no tender motion to her son to come to that bosom which had thus far been a pillow for all his troubles. Hereditary motives were no less strong in her than in her son.
"Please, mother!"
"You'd better get a bath and go to bed."
For the sake of saving his life, Richard could not have kept his lips from quivering.
"When did you have anything to eat, my boy?" asked Dr. Lister.
"I'm not hungry," answered Richard steadily.
"But how lately have you eaten?"
"Not very lately," confessed Richard. "I didn't think much about eating yesterday." For an instant his face was lightened by pleasant recollection. "I'm really not hungry. Please, mother, don't bother! You ought to go to bed; you're more tired than I."